oh, anna [-hs]

come into the water

At the click of the lock, the silence washes over us again. Harry turns to me.

"Did you like it?" His voice is low, hoarse.

"Yeah," I slowly nod. "But don't release it. Don't put it on an album, don't sell it to anyone."

He tilts his head but doesn't respond, waiting for me to say more.

"I don't want it to belong to anyone but you. I don't want it to be performed by anyone but you. I don't want it to be a song that plays on the radio." I feel myself beginning to ramble, a fear taking over. My list of demands is growing longer and longer because I'm suddenly snowballing. Afraid that this incredibly good song that is so personal could be heard by other people. And they would know.

"I don't have to ever sing it again if you don't want me to," he offers. I shake my head.

"You can sing it," I bite my lip and look down at Cherry. "You can sing it for other people, I just don't want my name on an album like that. It's a good song, it should be sung, and it's honest, it's you." And then I pause, thinking about what I want to say next. "Harry," I start. His eyes haven't once left me. "Have you written a lot of songs about me?"

He freezes, and then slowly nods his head. "Yeah, a lot."

"I would like to hear them sometime."

Emma stands up abruptly and waltzes out of the room. She doesn't say anything to us, just disappears down the hall, wanting to give us privacy.

"I'd like you to hear them sometime too," he replies. "You will, but not for a while."

"Why not," I snuggle my chin deeper into my arms.

"They aren't good enough yet," he tries to explain. "It scares me to share stuff with you sometimes because I value your artistic eye a lot, and I don't want you to not like them. And also," he presses his lips together and hugs the guitar closer to his chest. "I don't want to scare you away."

I squint at him in the yellow light. He's soft, clinging to the instrument for comfort, his hair falling gently onto his forehead. He digs his chin into the crook of the guitar and his eyes graze over me. I realize he's doing the exact same thing, his eyes tracing over my silhouette.

"Did I?" He murmurs. "Just now?"

I shake my head. "You're doing what you said you were going to do from the beginning, and so am I." I play with the end of my shorts I changed into. "It's like how you feel when I film you, that's how it feels when you sing a song about me."

"So when we were talking about those things out there," he gestures with his head to the window. "That scared you, but in here when I played a song about it, that felt okay."

"Yeah." I look down at my arm. Why is that?

"Because it's not just about you when it's a song," he puts two and two together, reading my mind. "It's something bigger. It's contributing to my career. It's art, it doesn't feel as--"

"Real," I cut him off.

He sits back.

"But at the same time it feels more real."

"Yeah," he whispers.

"I don't know music is weird like that," I shrug and look out the window. He shifts in his seat and stands up, setting the guitar down gently, leaning it against the table. "Where are you going?" I turn back to him.

"It's late, I should probably go," he offers, walking toward the front door to put his shoes back on. I watch him from the chair.

"You don't have to," I murmur. "You can crash on the couch if you want."